


Time and Silence

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Futures Without End, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-03-30
Updated: 2002-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:15:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leaving and coming home and Duncan and Methos. Highlander: Endgame spoilers. <a href="http://mediafans.org/futures4/12timeandsilence.html">An illustrated version can be found on the Futures Without End site</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time and Silence

Once I turn the car off, it makes odd little pinging sounds. I briefly consider making an appointment at a garage, but dismiss it as the least of my problems. The barge has a single light on; he's probably up late, reading.

I get out of the car and cross the plank. Everything is so familiar, but it hurts to be here. Not as much as it hurt to stay away, but I should be more accustomed to the ache. He's moving inside the barge; his Quickening gets closer. I don't knock. It's simpler to wait for him to open the door.

And he does. He almost yanks it off the frame. Methos' sword is in his hand, but he puts it behind him the moment he recognizes me. "Where the hell have you been, Mac?" he demands.

I motion behind me, to the night. "In the car," I say. "On the street for a while. Earlier, in an airplane." I could go on, but he's pissed at me. His eyes have narrowed, and despite having tufts of hair shooting off in various directions, he pulls the outraged lover off exceptionally well.

"For two years?" he snaps.

I tap the dome of my watch. "Damn it, I've been meaning to get this fixed..." I let my voice trail off. For a moment I'm afraid he's not going to let me into my own barge, but he steps back and lets me inside. He's wearing my robe. In fact, all around me, there are signs of Methos taking over my life. The books have changed in the bookcase; far more Latin than I would have had. Different CDs clutter around the stereo. Envelopes are on the desk; I can't read them from here, but I suddenly want to know if he's transferred the utilities to his name.

He gives me no indication he's glad to see me. I guess that's fair. I hadn't given him any indication in the past, either. The uselessness of his situation cripples me with empathy. We're both adults; combined, we're a thousand lifetimes over. We make our choices.

And we have to live with them.

He reads my mind and goes to the fridge for beer. It's not an unprecedented maneuver. He passes me one and sprawls on the couch. The robe keeps him decent by a hair's breath, and I'm glad for it. "Well, I suppose I should be glad you still have your head," he says, twisting off the cap. I wait for him to toss it, but he closes his hand around it. His fingers turn white, and I wonder if the pain is making this any easier for him.

"Are you?" I ask, sitting down next to me.

His eyes narrow slightly. I forgot how dark they can be when he's angry. I forgot exactly how unique his cheekbones are, how endearing his earlobes look, as exposed as they are. I want to distract myself before I spend the evening rhapsodizing about his beauty, but I missed him too much to look away. He waits for me to fill up on him. "Am I what, MacLeod?"

"Are you glad I'm not dead."

"Of course I am. The barge is still in your name. If you'd died, I'd have had to deal with your estate, and I know for a fact that you haven't kept it up-to-date."

I see him pouring over the documents in the desk, on a long winter's night, for some reason. He catches me looking over to it, but doesn't say anything about the invasion of privacy. I don't mention it.

"You make a lousy liar, Methos," I say. That's not the truth either; I'm just making conversation.

"I do not," he says.

I want to fall back into our easy arguments, but I open my mouth to reply that he does so, and he's studiously examining the ingredients on the label of his beer. He doesn't want to continue it, and I let it slide. He's had the last word, and he doesn't even look up.

"Why?" he asks, instead, but doesn't clarify the question. I'm not sure if he means why did I leave, or why did I come back, or even why he makes a lousy liar. I'm silent; when he wants to know the answer he'll ask the question.

I only hope I'll know it by then.

He stands up, leaving the bottle of beer on the coffee table. I watch him go, and understand why he goes to the closet and takes out a blanket and a pillow. "Good-night, MacLeod," he says, and gives them to me. I take them, knowing this isn't the time or the place to mention that whenever he came crawling back, I gave him back his half of the bed. I don't mention it, and it's sour and vile in the back of my throat. He doesn't wait for me to actually make the sofa up, but climbs up to the bed and turns the light off.

I hear the rustle of the robe falling to the floor, and then the sound of the bed creaking as Methos enters the big bed alone. It takes him a moment to settle, and when he does, I hold my breath to hear the sounds of his breathing.

"Welcome home," he says, and then nothing.

I wonder what he'll do if I join him in the middle of the night. This all could be an elaborate test on his part, but truthfully, I am too tired to find out. I take off my clothes and wonder if he's listening as keenly as I did. I hope he is.

I've slept on worse places than just a couch over the past two years, and as soon as I spread the blanket out, I follow Methos down into sleep.

I don't know what I dream about, but I wake up halfway to morning sweating under the blanket. The lapping of the waves against the bow helps calm me, but it's still too dark. I don't want to reach for the light; sitting in the darkness keeps me from remembering the dream.

I want to pace, but I force myself to lie back down again. The air is cold against my bare chest. Methos' breathing is still soft; he hasn't started dreaming yet. His breathing changes when he does; it's faster, more shallow. He gasps in his sleep, but he denies it the next morning. He lies to me about what he dreams about, too, but I've never called him on it.

I know him too well. That was the problem. I hadn't left just to show him he didn't have the monopoly on being the uncaring bastard in the relationship. It would have been simpler if that had been the cause. It would have been concrete enough for me to say it and for him to understand it and for us to work around it.

No, I had left for something far more... complex. I suppose it came to a head when Methos spread his preserves on my toast, just the way I like it, all the way to the edge. I know that doesn't sound like much of a reason to pack my duffel and just leave for over two years, but I just couldn't...couldn't...

Couldn't even admit it to myself. It was the way he did it. He didn't ask me. Hell, I didn't even know he had done it until I folded my paper back and saw it there, exactly the way I liked it, with Methos sucking on his jammy fingers.

Amanda had never done that, but then, Amanda had understood the limitations of our relationship. But I didn't look at her and see myself with a sword to her beautiful neck. Methos' neck was no less attractive, but as he was bent over his own paper, he'd moved his clean fingers to his neck and ran them down his throat.

I don't know what happened in that next minute, but it was an epiphany. I saw him, like I had seen Connor or Sean or Brian. Not in the moment I struck, but the heartbeat before, when they knew they were going to die. They had all accepted it willingly. I looked at Methos, and I saw him as he was the first time I met him, offering me his head. And I knew...knew without a doubt that the time would come when he would offer me his head again, and I froze.

It made everything, the barge, our life, our lovemaking...empty. Trivial. Happy for an day, a moment, a heartbeat, and then he'd ask me to do him that one little favour, and I just couldn't do it. I couldn't participate in it, not any more. I couldn't look around the barge and think of how I would feel the day after I came back from Methos' funeral.

So I left. Like a coward, without a note; I had learned from the best. Methos hadn't tried to find me. I suppose he could have if he wanted to, but he didn't. I respected that at the time, but now...

I wish he had tried to find me. I had tried to find him...the first couple times. But when Methos vanished, he winked out like a candle, and no one, not Joe, not his contacts, not even Amanda, knew where he was.

And like a schmuck, I waited for him. Like Methos waited for me. And now the dance continues.

I close my eyes and the last thought in my head is that I am never going to fall back asleep.

I wake up, knowing someone is watching me. I'm reaching for my sword before I'm really awake, but it's just Methos. Just Methos. I smile, opening my eyes, and then jump as I see him perched on the coffee table. The new coffee table. I wonder why I hadn't noticed it the night before.

"Good morning," I say, since there's not much else to begin the conversation. Methos cups his chin in his hands and doesn't answer. He's making me uncomfortable, but I suppose that is what he wants to be doing. I wait.

"What was it?" he finally asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"What was it? I mean, I know what annoys me when I leave. But you were supposed to be the dependable one."

The sun's in the sky, and it's been there for a while. Methos is dressed, and it takes me a moment to realize that his bags are by the door. The barge is clean, and I can't believe he did all that while I was sleeping.

"You've been out for hours," he says, reading me. "I guess this is goodbye, then."

"You're leaving?" I ask, stupidly.

"It's your barge, MacLeod. Remember? I just moved in to keep the rats from taking over," he stands and goes to the door. "Alas, I failed."

The door shuts behind him. Without him, the barge is empty and cold again. It takes me a while to realize that Methos had turned down the furnace.

It takes me most of the week to get through getting back into my life, and Methos avoids me. I let him avoid me. Joe doesn't tell me where he is, but I don't think he'll leave town. Not yet.

Friday night, I go to Joe's bar and feel the presence before I push open the door. I'm expecting Amanda, for some reason, but it's Methos, and he looks up from the bar, and he doesn't leave. I suppose that's all the invitation I'm going to get.

I sit down next to him. We don't look at each other. "Looking for a hot date, MacLeod?" Methos says. He turns around so that he's facing the room and rests his elbows on the bar.

"I thought I might stay in tonight."

"It's a bit too late for that, isn't it?" he asks. His nose wrinkles a little. He's still not looking at me.

"You know what I mean," I say.

"No, MacLeod. I don't. Not even slightly."

I look at him. "It's not like you haven't taken off yourself, Methos. I don't understand why you're..." It sounds lame. He looks at me with condescending amusement, and I go back to studying my beer.

"It's not the same thing at all," Methos says once I'm suitably chastised.

"And how is it different?" I demand.

"I never left to punish you," he says.

I'm silent, but only for a moment. "I didn't," I say, but it's too close to being a lie to say it very loud.

He doesn't say anything. He took off twice after we were lovers, and while he didn't email me with the subject line reading 'attention abandoned lover,' he told me he was itchy long before he actually left.

I hadn't given him any clues. One moment I was there, the next gone, and I'm not surprised that I terrified him.

"Why did you stay?" I ask.

He stands up. I don't grab his arm, and that surprises him. He stops, just outside my reach. "Somebody had to," he says.

Now he's lying. I stand up, but he turns around and walks out. I follow him. "Go home, MacLeod."

"Come with me."

Methos sighs and tightens his mouth. "Why?"

Everything wars inside me. I look at Methos and I see him with his nondescript neutral sweater, and jeans both worn and soft, and his suspicious tilt to his head, but I also see him kneeling before me, gasping for air, begging me just to finish it. I shake my head and close my eyes, and when I open them again, it's just Methos. "Because, I love you. Because..."

Methos presses his lips together, but then acquiesces. He would have surprised me if he hadn't, and I realize this with a start. Methos heads back to the barge, and I follow him. We don't touch. I want to thank him for doing this, but at least I stop it before the words come out.

He seems to know anyway.

Once back at the barge, I'm treated to a mechanical strip. He has to stop and pull off his boots, and I take the time to remove my shirt. He comes to me, still not looking directly at me, and kisses me.

I kiss him back.

I taste the blood on his lips. I yank back, putting my hand over my mouth, and for a moment he's stunned. "Mac? MacLeod, are you--"

I shake my head and turn around. His lips were normal, a bit thin, and now a little white out of concern, but nothing to explain the thick, coppery taste in the back of my mouth. I look at him again, and he morphs. Methos broken; Methos bleeding. Methos begging me to end it. I turn away to escape the image. Not by my hand, not again.

Methos doesn't try to stop me as I grab my jacket and stumble up and out of the barge.

I forgot about Paris weather. I should wait out the rainstorm in a café, but whenever I draw close to one, something inside me tells me not to stop. Rain runs down my neck and into my jacket, but I pull the leather closer to me and keep walking. My shoes are soaked through, my skin soaking wet under the jacket, and I keep walking.

The rain makes it impossible to look up, but the heaviness inside me matches the heaviness of my clothes and balances out somehow. I pass a taxi stand and hesitate, but only for a second. I imagine myself getting in, telling the cabbie to go to the airport, and I'd be gone, but the same voice that told me not to stop at the cafés also tells me not to do it.

I walk until almost dawn, until my wet socks give me blisters in my shoes and until the rain has stopped. There's no point in walking when it's not raining, so I set off home.

The cold morning air is saturated with moisture, so I don't dry much on the way home. The presence waits for me at the door; Methos is home.

He opens the door. It's not locked. Instead of being met at the door with a sword, I'm met with a towel, which I gratefully take. I strip off my jacket, but I'm no less wet for that. When I try to take a step into the barge, Methos holds out his hands. "Strip."

"What?" I ask.

"It took me six months to redo these floors. No way am I letting you drip all over them. Take off your clothes, MacLeod."

"It's freezing in here!" I say.

"My heart bleeds, really it does. Now remove your clothing or go spend a night in a hotel."

"You wouldn't."

"I bloody well would," Methos says. His arms are crossed, and he gives all other outward appearances of being deadly serious.

"This isn't funny, Methos," I try one more time.

Methos just narrows his eyes. "Do you see me laughing, MacLeod?"

No. I don't. And suddenly I'm too tired to argue anymore. I take off my shirt first, and Methos takes it from me primly. "I can fetch you a larger towel if you'd rather be modest," he says.

I wonder what Methos would do if I call him on it, but decide he would probably just get me the towel and turn his back. I drop my pants defiantly and almost miss the slight drop of Methos' eyes as he looks down. It makes me smile, and Methos' lips tighten at being caught.

"Don't be so sure of yourself," Methos says, taking my pants and shorts before turning away. "It's cold out there, and your testicles have shriveled." He goes into the main room.

"They have not."

"They have too."

"They have--"

Methos turns back. "Look, is this going to be the sum total of our communications? Because if it is, you can just leave now. I'm not in any mood for your games."

"For my games?" I demand. "I'm not the one who plays games, Methos."

"Correction. You weren't the one who played games. You blew that out of the water two years ago, remember?"

I step back, exhaling sharply through my nose. He can argue with Methos all morning, but I'm tired. "Fine. Absolutely. You're right. Are you finished berating me? Can I get some sleep today?"

"Be my guest," Methos says slowly, letting the irony drip off his words.

I slip in between my sheets in my bed on my barge, but don't argue.

I wake up to a second weight in the bed, and it takes me a heartbeat to realize that Methos has joined me sometime during the morning. I turn around carefully, but Methos is still asleep, on top of the covers, with his clothes on. I wonder if he wanted to wake up before I did and not let me see. He's facing me, breathing in a deep, heavy sleep, and the need to touch him is immediate. I keep my hands to myself, though, and fall back to sleep.

When I wake again, Methos is gone. The television's on, but turned down so low dogs would strain to hear. Methos is in front of the set, and the sky has darkened enough that the television emits blue light.

Methos turns it off and half stands up as I get out of bed and pull on my robe. "Slept long enough," he grumbles.

"Did you need me for something?"

"No. It was just an awfully long time to be quiet."

I don't say anything. I move to the kitchen to find something to eat, and Methos follows me. I go through the motions of making dinner, but Methos hasn't moved from just behind my shoulder. I turn around to get something, but I move too fast and smack directly against him.

We hit, and Methos temporarily has the wind knocked out of him. I am going to apologize, but Methos kisses me instead.

It's violent. Needy. Teeth and tongue and lips and breath against each other. Dinner's forgotten. Hell, my name's forgotten. Methos is hot against me, and he feels so right.

He yanks away long enough to undo my robe. I fumble with his jeans, trying to yank them down when they're only half unzipped. Methos jerks back, swearing, and does it himself.

I bite down on his neck. It's violent enough that it breaks the skin, but Methos doesn't complain. He rakes his nails against my back, and I can feel that it raises welts.

I push him back. He hits the fridge with a grunt, and I'm up against him again, thigh hard against his groin. His face is unreadable, but when I decide we've taken the violence far enough, he grabs me, pulling me back.

I clue in. I grab him again, but he yanks me back, and then sweeps my legs out from under me. I fall back, and Methos is right over me. We lie there for a heartbeat as he makes sure the fall hasn't cracked my skull open, and then he grabs me again.

The jab to the throat isn't fair, I decide, but by the time I manage to take an unhindered breath, Methos already has me flipped over and is breathing hot against the back of my neck.

I've had enough of the game. I knock Methos over, easily, too easily. It's like he weighs nothing. I straddle his body. He fights back, but I keep him pinned. There is something...right about being over Methos; there are no more games, no more struggles--it's just right.

I close my eyes, just for a second, and suddenly Methos' palm catches me in the chest. It's only a glancing blow, but when I open my eyes, I can't believe my hands are around Methos' neck. There's no pressure on it, but my fingers are interlocked. I push away, and Methos rolls onto his side, gasping.

Methos hacks again, and then swallows unhindered. "You...uh...you're..." he begins, and then stands up and takes out a beer.

Apologizing seems out of place. I stare at my hands like they've betrayed me. Perhaps they have. I don't understand, but Methos does. He finishes his beer and wipes his mouth on the back of his forearm.

I shake my head. "What's wrong, Methos?"

Methos blinks again and carefully takes the bottle from me. "What do you see?"

"What?"

"When you look at me, MacLeod. What do you see? What drove you away?"

I look at him. He looks back at me. I can get out of this; the door's not that far away. He glances at it and steps out of my way. I can't move. "MacLeod?" he asks, softly.

I turn to him. "I see you. Offering your head to me, like all the others."

Methos blinks again, but he's taking it well. "Is that all?" he asks.

"How can you joke about this?" I demand.

"Because it will never happen, MacLeod."

"It happened before. You let me win."

"Yeah, but only because I knew you wouldn't take me."

"You didn't know!"

His eyes narrow. "It was an educated guess," he says, slowly. "I'm not Connor, MacLeod. Or Sean or Richie or Brian. I'm not going to let you take my head."

I want to grab him, throw him against the fridge. Make him mine. He wouldn't fight me; he'd even enjoy it. But I don't. I take my beer and go to the couch. Methos joins me a heartbeat later.

He takes the beer from my hand, and I let it go without fighting. Our hands are wet from the bottle's condensation, but I don't fight as he intertwines our fingers. It has been a long time since we've both sat on the couch, breathing. He's flushed; the colour spreads to the collar of his sweater, and I stare at the blotchy skin rather than at how carefully he adjusts himself so he can sit down on my lap.

I can smell him this close. He smells of sweat and fabric softener and more faintly of my aftershave, which is peppery in the back of my throat. His jeans are soft against my free hand. I put it on his thigh, tracing up the inner seam until I feel him under the denim.

He hisses, softly, but doesn't let go of my hand. I put the palm of my hand over him. He shifts, spreading his legs further for me.

It's been a long time for him, too. I pull him down to me, using our entwined hands. His flushed skin is hot against my lips; I don't even mind the faint stubble. He smells less of the external scents this close; my nose is against his jaw line, and it's just Methos from here. I feel his carotid artery under my lips, but I don't want to bite it. He's moving over me, trying to remind me of my other hand, I suppose, but I'm too fascinated by his neck.

He pulls away, his thick sweater still on; there's more red skin on his neck than white. I almost don't let him go so he can pull it off. He tugs at my hand for a heartbeat, and then stops fighting. I let him go.

The flush is all over his body. I suddenly want to lie over him and feel it. We break apart, but only long enough to remove clothing.

He moves slowly; I've never seen him this deliberate before. He doesn't look away from me. He reaches under the sofa, and I flush. Our stash. He smiles, too. The only sound is the slip of his hand against my cock, and I push him back, slightly. It's too much. He half-smiles this time, slowing his hand to match my breathing. I can't look at his long fingers working over me; I'd lose control. He's not looking at his hand either. I pull him to me, and he has to straddle my lap to do so. His thumb moves over me as his mouth reaches mine, and instead of kissing him, all I can do is groan, but he laughs and takes that instead.

More oil drips onto his hand, but I can't smell it until it reaches his temperature. Sweet. Floral. He hisses again and starts to rock against me. One hand on me, the other behind him, and I can rock with him like this all day. I kiss him, raking my teeth against his bottom lip, and he shudders. I don't let him pull away. My hands over his hips keep him to me; he's not trying to get away. His skin is hot against me.

  


I start to think this is all he wants from me; I can't last much longer. He stops, suddenly, and my breath catches. He sits up, looking at me, and I shift down lower. No talking, just Methos slick against me and then I'm inside him and the ringing silence in my ear is broken by his gasps--our gasps. Not all of them are his.

I want to say his name, but he hasn't looked away from me, and I can't speak until he does--and he knows it. The half-smile is back, and he hisses again, moving against me for the first time.

I go to touch him, to hold him, but he looks at me and moves his hips, and I don't move. He does it himself, but he just holds his cock. He's stopped moving again, and I want to force him to move, to do anything, not to just sit there, but I can't move. And he knows.

He waits for my breathing to calm down before he moves again. I exhale; he lets me pull him closer. Inhaling draws him back. I can't see what he's doing to himself without looking away, but I can feel it against me.

Methos trembles. He doesn't fight my hands on his hips; his own legs are trembling, as well. I move against him again, and the trembles turn to shudders. A third and fourth time and he's fighting

with himself not to look away. I don't make it easy for him. My breathing increases; he doesn't mind the new motion.

He closes his eyes, shivering, and I gasp out his name. His hand is no longer passive against him, and if I don't let go soon it's going to hurt like hell.

Methos cries out first. It's too much. It does hurt, but not as much as the pleasure inside me.

Eventually I can take an unhindered breath. I don't remember us repositioning ourselves on the sofa, but we must have.

"I'm never going to offer you my head, MacLeod," Methos says in the darkness. I can feel him pressed up along my body, but he sounds distant.

I put my hand on his hip. It fits there. I wonder which one of us brought the blanket from the bed; it was probably him. I would have remembered something as painful as moving.

"Say it, MacLeod."

"Say what?" I ask, voice muffled by the back of his neck. He rocks his head back, and I kiss the line of his spine.

"I am never going to offer you my head."

"You are never going to offer me your head," I say. He's shivering again; I pull the blanket back up around his shoulder.

Methos relaxes again. Neither of us mention the bed a stone's throw away; the sofa's good enough. I fall asleep, listening to him breathe.


End file.
